COLUMN

“People. It’s always the people.”

I was 26 years old and had been north of Gävle only once in my life. Now I was suddenly sitting on a plane preparing to land, and as the clouds parted, I saw endless snow-covered expanses, broken up by equally endless stretches of forest and sporadic lights that revealed signs of human life. I remember feeling a slight panic at the vastness of the landscape, the imagined emptiness.

One year, I thought. If I get the job, I’ll give it a year—that’s long enough to stick it out anywhere just to gain some work experience.

That’s what I thought back then, and actually throughout the entire day I spent in Skellefteå in this blessed year of 2004. I was there for a job interview at Norran because, as a newly graduated journalist at the time, jobs were scarce in the Mälardalen region where I lived. I applied widely, and in Skellefteå I got a bite.

But there on the plane, I wished I wouldn’t get the job. And on the way back to the airport that evening, it felt like the forest was going to swallow me up.

But I got the job. And in March 2005, I was living in Skellefteå, in an apartment in Norrböle with a fireplace and hardwood floors—a world apart from the ant-infested student apartment in Uppsala that I’d left behind.

And slowly but surely, something began to happen. That sense of unease I’d felt on the plane was replaced by a feeling of space to breathe, a sense of freedom, if you will. But that wasn’t really what changed my attitude toward northern Sweden and Skellefteå. It was the people. It’s always the people.

For the first six months, the Norran editorial office was my entire world. And from day one, I was welcomed with a warmth, a friendliness, and a curiosity that floored me.

There was Sofi, with the warmest laugh and zero tolerance for idiocy. And Jenny, who took me out for a quick smoke break every so often. And then there was Per, who immediately understood and could relate to my twisted sense of humor. “Today’s Dilemma” became a tradition and always revolved around who you’d rather sleep with out of two choices. To this day, he hasn’t decided who he’d choose between Sune Mangs and Carola.

Add to that Eli, Hanna, Lars, Roine, Pär, Annika, Jeanette, Elin, Malin, Sofia, Abris, and a host of others, and you have a cross-section of the best of Skellefteå—the people.

Over time, I expanded my circles, and after a year had passed, there was no place I’d rather live. And I began to slowly understand what it means to find a home. Because home doesn’t have to be the place where you were born or where you’ve lived for a long time. It’s the place where you find a sense of belonging with people who care about you, whom you can relate to. People who welcome you, not as a stranger but as an equal, and who want you to be there.

"Home is the place where you find a sense of belonging among people who care about you" 

Back then, Skellefteå was a sleepy, mid-sized town. At least, that’s what people said. But even though I’d lived in big cities, I didn’t see it that way. Because while a cultural center and ambitious population goals are nice, that’s not what a city or municipality is built on—it’s the people.

The people of Skellefteå may speak with a nasal twang due to a certain amount of inbreeding. And they may have a pathological difficulty pronouncing the word “smoothie” in an acceptable way. But generally speaking, the people of Skellefteå possess that warmth, openness, and curiosity that are the very most important things for a city to thrive. And that’s no bullshit.

Text: Caroline Thorén, Journalist at Megafonen

Photo: Tilda Olofsgård